[ every part of him wishes to spit curses out at the patrons of the tavern, at D for interfering with his decidedly foolish actions. laurent hums with anger, some vulnerable part of him torn loose. he hadn't asked for help. he could have taken a good number of these men without any of them landing a blow — he's certain of his skills, of the years spent toiling beneath a sword with only the singular thought of becoming good enough to slay prince damianos of akielos, his brother's killer — and as for the rest, he would have weaseled his way out of the situation somehow. he always does.
and now his anger has nowhere to go as D bodily forces him out the tavern and into the rain, where he's immediately soaked, his golden hair darkening with water. his hand stings suddenly, and when he looks down he notices for the first time a gash across his palm, a jagged piece of the broken mug having sliced through skin to leave him bleeding. he swings his gaze to D, the moonlight catching the crystalline quality of his blue eyes, livid.
there are a dozen scathing remarks on his tongue, but he falters, an uncharacteristic weakness, the cloak of his identity stripped away. even with the dangerous weight of his uncle's presence hanging over him like an anvil back in arles, he was still the prince of vere. he had the authority to have men flogged, killed, to say and do as he liked and suffer the consequences in private. here, standing before D with the heat of his own temper warming his cheeks, he feels like little more than a child, battered, soiled, just a man with a bloodline ruined by his uncle's cock.
he has never wanted to kill a man more. he imagines his sword slicing cleanly across the column of D's throat, his unnatural beauty preserved as the blood drains out of him. and yet the last bit of sense remaining in him tells him that D cannot be killed, at least not so easily. ]
Don't order me again. [ his voice is low, the silken quality gone and replaced by something hard, raw — perhaps the only real part of him that's seeped through the falsely honeyed veneer, the blank impassivity he's presented so far. ] Or I promise you, I will find a way to have you sent to the Gallows, the Forges, or the Tempest. I'll allow you the choice.
no subject
and now his anger has nowhere to go as D bodily forces him out the tavern and into the rain, where he's immediately soaked, his golden hair darkening with water. his hand stings suddenly, and when he looks down he notices for the first time a gash across his palm, a jagged piece of the broken mug having sliced through skin to leave him bleeding. he swings his gaze to D, the moonlight catching the crystalline quality of his blue eyes, livid.
there are a dozen scathing remarks on his tongue, but he falters, an uncharacteristic weakness, the cloak of his identity stripped away. even with the dangerous weight of his uncle's presence hanging over him like an anvil back in arles, he was still the prince of vere. he had the authority to have men flogged, killed, to say and do as he liked and suffer the consequences in private. here, standing before D with the heat of his own temper warming his cheeks, he feels like little more than a child, battered, soiled, just a man with a bloodline ruined by his uncle's cock.
he has never wanted to kill a man more. he imagines his sword slicing cleanly across the column of D's throat, his unnatural beauty preserved as the blood drains out of him. and yet the last bit of sense remaining in him tells him that D cannot be killed, at least not so easily. ]
Don't order me again. [ his voice is low, the silken quality gone and replaced by something hard, raw — perhaps the only real part of him that's seeped through the falsely honeyed veneer, the blank impassivity he's presented so far. ] Or I promise you, I will find a way to have you sent to the Gallows, the Forges, or the Tempest. I'll allow you the choice.